the makings of a mother
by Smoltenica
Summary: Because Gothel, for all her cruelty and vanity, was the woman who raised Rapunzel, made her hazelnut soup, and taught her how to play chess. This is, or will be, the story of how she got there. Companion fic to "Applique", and a gift fic for Metonomia.
1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, it was the most impractical thing she had ever done.

The baby was, as far as babies went, a cute baby. It had those gorgeous, over-long locks of golden hair, silken ropes that coiled and curled at a length that Gothel suspected was somewhat unusual for a normal child (though of course, this was no normal child, this was her flower, her petal). And then it did have rather large eyes- trusting eyes, she had thought scornfully, when the baby had failed to cry during her flight from the castle- but nonetheless, perfectly formed, large, green eyes. No, it was a pretty baby- but it was, nonetheless, a baby.

As Gothel sat down in the forest, she stared at the gurgling infant, at the drool that was now dripping onto her sleeve. Involuntarily, her nose wrinkled. Washing her dress would be such a pain- she could do it, of course, but the water and the scrubbing made her skin stiff, and sometimes her knuckles flaked. And she did not, in truth, have all that many dresses. She had not imagined, when she scaled the castle walls, that she would ever need to deal with a child's saliva. Hair, yes, she could deal with- but a living, breathing child?

Now it stirred, stretched- and oh, but its fingers were tiny! Had her own hands once been that small?

Intrigued, Gothel touched the soft, tiny fingers- not that much larger than the nail of her thumb, and yet each of those fingers had soft, perfect nails (and a bolt of anger wrenched her body, that this child should be so perfectly formed while she herself faded on a daily basis)- even had tiny folds where its joints would be. It truly was (at least in appearance), a human in miniature form.

And then it opened its eyes. And began howling.

Instantly, Gothel put it down and tried to push it aside so there was at least half a foot of grass between them. What did she know of babies? It had been so many, many years since she had been surrounded by children, and even then she had never really known what to do with one!

_Leave it, _was her first thought, but even the thought made her skin feel baggy and loose, and she felt her hair go limp and grey at the thought. No, no, she needed it, needed this child!

Once, on a cloudy twilight when the winds had decided to buffet uncertainly in multiple directions, she had struggled to reach the flower, and when she had removed her careful basket cover, it had swayed so dangerously she had feared that it would break at the stem.

"_Sh, sh," _she had whispered, reaching out to touch the petals, _"sh, sh"- _and it had responded, responded to her touch (and why should it not, when hers was the only touch other than wind and moonlight that that flower had experienced since it first fell to earth?)

Now, she reached out to the child, to its hair _sun and flower flower and sun, _and whispered, "Sh, sh," in what she hoped was a soothing voice. _"Hush, _little flower."

Still the little thing squalled and writhed.

"Shh!" she hissed, glancing around. It was the forest at the dead of night, but the king and queen had awoken and seen her take their child, and she did not wish to take chances. "_Hush_!"

_Product of greed,_ she wanted to sneer at the child, _waste of a precious flower. What right do you have to scream? _

But she knew that babies, even babies, would hear a sneer and respond poorly. And this baby was not warming to her in the slightest.

_Lock it in a chamber, _she thought, _feed it bread and water and sing for its hair. _

But even then, she would have to train the child to swallow, to eat, to sing; and then the child would need to relieve itself, would need to bathe- and to look after it! Look after it! And it would be its own person, she thought with disgust, curling her finger around one of its locks and tugging.

If possible, the child screeched even more loudly.

Gracious, would there be no _end _to this? Which foolish person ever said that babies were beautiful? There was nothing beautiful about them, nothing impressive- except the volume they could raise!

Then again, people were fools, this she knew. Those wretched, hasty, greedy, _foolish _soldiers who had uprooted her flower- the whole flower!- were proof of that. People would say things were impressive that were not impressive, but then would fail to appreciate what truly was special.

Uprooting the entire flower! And stewing it, as though it was worth nothing! A flower like that was worth at least three score of those idiots!

(And truly, it was the _nerve _of that, uprooting the flower in its entirety from the ground, where it belonged, to save a woman- one woman- from what? An illness to do with the child she carried. Surely they knew that childbirth was a woman's battlefield, and women died almost daily due to birthing or illness around that. And what had the queen birthed, anyway? A girl? A girl who would not, could not, inherit a kingdom! And they had taken her _entire flower _for a tiny girl who would never inherit- worthless endeavour, and what a price!)

The baby let out a particularly loud howl at this point, and Gothel gritted her teeth and focused on the present.

_It did not always screech when its parents held it, _she thought, recalling the times she had visited the square and hidden amongst the cheering masses.

What had they done to stop it screeching? Been kind to it?

Something like bile curled at the back of her throat.

She was not its parent, surely she would not have to do that. Being kind was not, and had never been, one of her particular strengths.

But what then to do?

"QUIET!" she screeched, but the baby only wailed more loudly. Gothel half expected a soldier to race from behind the trees and apprehend her at that moment.

No, no, this wasn't working. But what did not work did not make one's aim _impossible, _it only meant there must be another way. When her flower had been uprooted and so unceremoniously stewed and eaten, she had found the child, had followed it; and now she had the child, she must treasure it.

"Petal," she said, stroking its hair, "you'll be my petal, won't you?"

The baby squirmed, but quietened a little.

(Did it recognise its identity, its origin, its affinity with the flower?)

_(But this is a child. It has a name.) _

And wherever _that _thought had come from, Gothel had no desire to discover, but only recalled standing in the square, seeing that transformed petal, hearing the king and queen announce their child, _Princess Rapunzel_- recalled thinking what a tomfool name it was, but heard it chanted, chanted by the crowd around her- _Rapunzel Rapunzel Rapunzel. _

"My petal, Rapunzel," she cooed, and traced its nose with her forefinger. "Hush, Rapunzel. Gothel's here."

The writhing, at least, halted, and Gothel hesitated; reached out, picked the tiny thing up.

"_Flower, gleam and glow," _she began, fingers twisting around Rapunzel's hair.

Almost instantly, the infant calmed, stilled, even- was that- a _smile_?

_Mine, _Gothel thought, triumphantly, even as the blonde hair began to shine, incandescent in the dark night, luminous with the thin, small song. She felt the child's silky, thick hair; almost the same as the soft, thick petals of the flower she had found, hidden, for so long. _That wretched queen might have eaten my flower, might have birthed a child- but you, you- you are mine. _

* * *

_A/N: Because I promised Metonomia. _

_There will be more chapters at some point; this is, after all, concerning the making of Mother Gothel, and she is not yet at the stage where she calls herself mother, let alone goes on several day trips to find shells by the sea, or teaches Rapunzel how to make candles and play chess etc. _

_Also, I wrote this at 11:30pm when I meant to go to sleep, and it is completely unbeta-d, so feedback would be tops. I do go back and edit my stories when typos and poorly structured sentences etc are noted!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

"Here, flower," Gothel said tiredly, staring at the wall and hoping her voice still sounded sweet. She felt Rapunzel look at her dubiously, watched from the lower corner of her eye as Rapunzel stared at the spoon of soup and strained her head backwards as though the green lentil mush could somehow attack her.

"No, no, it's good. See?"

After taking a mouthful, Gothel began to understand why Rapunzel squirmed away. She was not a fan of lentils at the best of times, but being in a tower made it slightly difficult to procure nice, fresh food at regular intervals. Their mutual confinement had resulted in an increase in dried, longer-lasting foodstuffs, but had not, as of yet, produced any memorable delicacies.

"Come on, flower," she cooed tiredly, lowering her eyes so that the slightly-larger infant was now the focal point of her gaze. "Open your mouth! Ye- e- NO, RAPUNZEL!"

A green vomit-like jet burst forth from Rapunzel's lips and landed squarely on the chest of her dress and Rapunzel emitted a little howl.

Why did nobody write of how much washing one would have to do with a child? How much patience was required to feed a one year-old?

Not for the first time, Gothel felt her simmering resentment for the vapid king and queen rise to a full throttled boil. _They _wouldn't have to do this- not kings and queens, they wouldn't have to deal with the frustrations of actually nursing a child! They would have cooed over how cute their insipid child was and left her to be. _And left her hair be. _

_Rapunzel's hair. _

The flower, _her _flower.

Sighing, Gothel looked at the mirror she had strategically placed on the wall opposite her current seating position.

A slightly tired woman stared back at her, but the woman was lovely, with her tumbling dark curls, her lovely, large dark eyes, her beautiful pale face and her slender figure.

_Yes, _Gothel thought, smiling, and the smile grew as she saw the woman's smile grow, too; _yes, you are quite lovely. _

Rapunzel, in the meantime, had quietened down, and was holding her hands out towards Gothel.

"Ma!" she cried excitedly, bouncing her first upon the wooden plank Gothel had figured as a haphazard table. "Ma!"

"Sh, sh," Gothel murmured, still staring at the woman.

The woman had lovely lashes, to be sure, and lovely features, but- was her chin perhaps- _too _pointy? She bent her head critically; the woman in the mirror did, too- if she smiled, yes- there, it looked beautiful and delicate. But a little wider- no, no, that made her chin look far too small, and the thought made her frown.

"Ma?"

Rapunzel's voice had taken on a worried, whiny tone.

"Oh, hush, child," Gothel said briskly.

Glancing once more at the mirror, she saw the woman's fine, high cheekbones, her perfect, clear skin, and smiled.

"Flower," she said sweetly, "shall I brush your hair and sing?"

She was not sure just how much Rapunzel actually understood of that, but the child began bouncing upon the pile of books, looking for all the world like a flower in a breeze. Her golden hair flared out, looking so wonderfully like the petals of the flower Gothel had so cherished, and she was even (purely by chance) wearing a green dress. The likeness was such that it was almost as if she was in the field, was kneeling by the stem with its glowing top, and Gothel felt the gentle breeze on her face, felt that warm recognition that glowed to her (perfectly manicured) fingertips, and almost impulsively, her hand was stroking Rapunzel's gentle head, and her voice was tender as she sang.

The familiar glow of gold, unrivalled even by the rare golden linings that seized the evening clouds, began to fill the room, dimming out the sunlight from the crevasses of the walls, and Gothel felt, even if she did not see, the sigh of relief in her bones as that horrible feeling she sometimes had (_I am a smile stretched across wary, battered bones_) began receding, first a shuffle, then a a step, then a scamper; and when she ceased her song, the air vibrated, almost pulsed, with _youth. _

"Good petal," she breathed, still stroking Rapunzel's hair, "my good, good little one."

Rapunzel smiled up at her, a look of such adoration and trust in her eyes that Gothel was not sure whether to feel more scorn for this stupid creature that could not tell its own mother from another woman, or to allow herself that whisper of pleasure in the sheer amount of _trust _the child seemed to have in her.

Well, perhaps not trust. Perhaps it was just the adoration. After all, who did not like to be adored? Looking once again in the mirror, head cocked to one side, Gothel thought that she had every reason to be adored.

Yes, that was it, of course. She liked that the child knew to appreciate her properly. Flowers could not look so adoringly at one.

Rapunzel, in the meantime, seemed to have taken the pause as a sign that her meal was over, and was attempting to crawl out of her chair.

"No, Rapunzel, no!"

In a flurry so loud Gothel was sure her pounding heart would be felt in the heart of the kingdom, Rapunzel climbed to the edge of the table, and Gothel saw the image, as clear in her mind's eye as though it was happening before her- Rapunzel falling, her head grazing the table, Rapunzel falling, falling- her eyes wide, arms reached out to Gothel, who she now called _Ma _by habit- reaching out, but falling- and the thud, and her flower would die, the glowing would end, and she would be left with a dead young child with lank, lifeless brown hair, in a tall tower, left to age and wrinkle and (die)- no one would care, no one would know.

Rapunzel let out a wail, and it seemed to Gothel that her wail seemed to stop time- or had a strange effect upon time- for an excruciating hand seemed to reach and grasp at her throat, twisting with painful slowness- but somehow, her body was faster, and she was hurtling to Rapunzel, had her arms outstretched, caught her midair, and went crashing to the ground.

In that moment when her body fell with a rather resounding smack on the cold, hard tiles, Gothel resolved to trade her shell collection for a set of thick carpets. Already, she could feel the bruises forming _(battered tired bones) _crying out in a thousand voices like pins in her ears.

"_Come, flower, shine," _she intoned desperately, smoothing Rapunzel's hair, "_... something something..." _

Rapunzel herself calmed down, perhaps because the song was so familiar to her, or perhaps (as Gothel liked to think) because when her hair was stroked she remembered, remembered when she had been Gothel's and only Gothel's (not stolen by king or queen or wrenched away by brutish soldiers), and she began making tiny noises of tiredness, opening her mouth and screwing up her face in miniature yawns.

"Yes, I feel that way myself," Gothel muttered, shifting Rapunzel to one arm and slowly lifting herself off the ground. "Let's rest now, shall we?"

She had stood up and was about to to the bedroom when something registered in the corner of her eye, and she looked down, half startled, at the offending green mush that had started the entire debacle.

A slightly nauseous wave rose in her stomach, and her face twitched involuntarily. Lentils truly were not worth it.

"Come, flower," she said, shifting Rapunzel so that she was easier to carry, "time for you to have a nap. Come dinner, we'll try something else- I will make hazelnut soup. That will be much nicer, won't it?"

She felt Rapunzel 's arms weave their way around her neck, felt her nod sleepily against her neck, felt her small nose nuzzle against her earlobe, felt something- her lips- press together against her lower neck, and withdraw, press once more, and withdraw.

Startled, Gothel realised that Rapunzel was giving her tiny kisses.

"Come, flower," she said hurriedly, speeding up towards the bedroom and removing Rapunzel to place her upon a set of blankets, "time to sleep."

She began stroking Rapunzel's hair, murmuring nonsense words and memories of half songs she had recalled from the hazy time when she herself had been young.

She was not sure how long she stayed, but she must have stayed longer than she planned, for when she looked up from Rapunzel's sleeping form, the shadows of the trees were already long across the grass, had begun tumbling across the high, narrow windows, were already whispering at the tiles of the tower. Rapunzel stirred, gave a yawn, and blinked owlishly with her over-large eyes.

"Ma?" she said, tiredly. Or perhaps it was _"Mm- ah?". _It seemed to be one of the few sounds Rapunzel was capable of making. _"Ma?" _

"I'm here," Gothel said, sighing, and picked Rapunzel up. "Let's go now, shall we? Will you eat dinner this time? Mother will make hazelnut soup."

Rapunzel buried her face against Gothel's neck once more, her nose pressing uncomfortably against one of Gothel's arteries. Each pulse sucessively swelled and reeled and fought down one side of Gothel's mind, and she found herself blinking by the time she reached the cupboard with the hazelnuts, found herself massaging her neck after depositing Rapunzel on the floor (where she could not, this time, fall).

It was only when she was stirring the pot, the fragrant fume of hazelnuts singing through the room, that she realised she had called herself _Mother. _

* * *

_A/N: To be honest, I'm not really happy with this, but I figured it's better to have it up here than languishing on my computer. I shall probably rehaul this entire chapter soon, but for now, it is here. _

_Also, concerning the succession issue I raised last chapter: I imagine that the King and Queen dealt with the issue fairly easily; succession acts seem fairly common in history. I might clean that point up, though. It depends on how motivated I am haha._


	3. Chapter 3

"Mother?" the girl asked, as Gothel pressed a wet cloth to her face.

It was a frightfully hot summer, the sticky air pushing and pressing at the tower, and Gothel was beginning to regret having chosen a place with so narrow a circumference. Perhaps it was merely psychological, but _being _in a tower (especially with an adventurous child who had nearly set fire to the dining table while attempting to 'cook dinner' the night previously) was enough to make the air in her lungs beat, futilely, at her sagging frame.

"Mother?" Rapunzel repeated, this time louder. Gothel tried to close her eyes, but the girl had a grip of her forearm, and was applying pressure. "Mother?"

"Yes, Rapunzel?" she snapped, whipping the cloth away from her eyes. "What is it?"

The girl had the good grace to look ashamed.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Mother," she said, her orb-like eyes gleaming slightly. Oh, gracious, was she going to cry now? It had been _years _since the child had been an infant; surely she had learned how _not _to cry? And after all the hours Gothel had spent soothing her; sleepless nights and bleary afternoons, sweat pouring down her brow as she steamed yet _another _batch of handkerchiefs- and the child was crying _again? _

"For heaven's sake, don't cry, Rapunzel," she said brusquely.

At her words, the girl's eyes became even glassier, bright emerald with blurred irises, and her lower lip trembled.

Irritation pierced Gothel like a blunt needle.

"Petal," she said, forcing herself to sound soothing, "come here, petal."

Feeling vaguely foolish, she patted her lap.

Gothel had never much liked things sitting on her lap; she recalled a time, many years past, when a cat had decided to dig its claws into her thighs. However, the action seemed to soothe Rapunzel, who now scooted to her lap, burying her face against Gothel's shoulder.

Gothel felt the warm wetness of tears and snot press against her dress and sighed. At least washing day was scheduled for two days' time.

"Don't cry, petal," she murmured, reaching up to stroke Rapunzel's hair.

If possible, Rapunzel's hair grew thicker, smoother, lighter, more golden, more like velvet, and if there was one thing Gothel did not mind about having Rapunzel seated on her lap, it was that Rapunzel's hair filled her field of vision; waves of gold pouring, the length of the child's body now, almost to the floor.

_My flower is growing. _

"You know I love you, petal," she cooed, twining her fingers through the lustrous strands. "You know mother loves you."

She felt Rapunzel throw her spindly arms around her neck, and bit back a smile. She had not yet worked out whether she found it more amusing or endearing that the child seemed to think she was speaking to _her _whenever she said those words, and somehow the secret knowledge made it more tantalising, more enjoyable to speak them.

"My precious little flower."

Closing her eyes, she buried her face into the crown of Rapunzel's head, the dizzying clarity of the floral scent filling the thick air with a sweet hum.

"- Mother," Rapunzel was saying.

"I beg your pardon, Rapunzel?" she asked, regretfully pulling away from the sweet, light fragrance.

The child looked at her, blinking owlishly, her eyes wide and solemn. Gothel could not help but smile a little at how disproportionate her face was; there was something almost- _sweet _about it, and she felt a slight twinge somewhere, accompanied by a twist she could not quite comprehend.

"I'm sorry I nearly cried, Mother," Rapunzel said, her voice low. "I was just wondering-"

But what she was wondering, she did not say, and Gothel sighed as the girl began biting her lip and glancing sideways.

"Rapunzel, darling, _what_ can be so interesting about the wall?" she drawled, tapping her fingers against the tabletop. "And do stop chewing your lip, it's a terrible habit, and quite unpleasant to look at."

When she glanced back, Rapunzel had straightened her back, her hands clasped tightly together, and the girl was again looking at Gothel's face.

"Mother, I was reading that book you gave me," Rapunzel said, and a small crease furrowed her brow. "The confusing one, where the pilgrims start telling stories."

Gothel stared.

"You _woke me up _to tell me that you were reading Chaucer's _Tales?" _

Rapunzel looked abashed.

"No, Mother, I just- it –"

"Don't stammer," she said coolly, reaching out to pick up her towel. It was still damp, though the coolness had long since faded into an uncomfortable room-temperature warmth.

"The squire," Rapunzel said abruptly, "the squire, who is the knight's son. He has a father. Who is my father? Why isn't he here?"

_Who is my father? _

It shouldn't have been such a surprising question, but Gothel had never considered that Rapunzel should ask it, had never thought herself how to answer it.

_Who is my father? _

_You're not my child, _she could say, but though there was some satisfaction in the thought of the child's face crumpling, if Rapunzel _left _– or resented her and ran away- she would lose the last remnant of- well, the last remnant.

_Of the flower, _she thought firmly, _if she leaves, I lose the last remnant of my flower. _

_Your father is dead, _she could say, but that was an outright lie on every level, and as dishonest as some might call her actions, she had not _lied _in hiding Rapunzel and allowing her to call her 'Mother'.

She remembered the king's edict, the soldiers and their swords, the terror pooling and gripping every fibre of her being as the soldiers had hacked away the flower, taken it to be boiled.

The words came to her before she had even comprehended them.

"Your father is a cruel man," she said, standing, her voice harder and colder than the tower walls she now stared at. "He hurt me, betrayed me. I took you and left."

Something akin to horror flooded Rapunzel's eyes. Her hands unclasped themselves, and in a soft blur, she hurled herself into Gothel's arms.

Looking down at the crown of gold, with Rapunzel's arms, pale and thin, clutching at her desperately, dependently, something lighted inside Gothel, the soft glow of Rapunzel's hair when they sang _("Mother, we can't play hide and seek because you're cheating! You'll always find me when you start singing!"), _something warm and intangible, the aroma of the faintest, sweetest flower.

"There, now, Rapunzel," she said, stroking the girl's hair once more. "There, there."

Rapunzel looked up, her eyes steely as emeralds.

"I hate him, Mother," she said, with an edge to her voice that Gothel marvelled at. "I hate him for hurting you."

_Hate. _

Like the swish of a cloak as it brushed around the corner, the word faded in the air, but Gothel reached, took the thread, pulled.

"Men will do that," she whispered, kneeling down so she looked Rapunzel in the eye. "Other people do that. They hurt you, and betray you. But Mother won't. Mother's here. Mother knows best."

It was the note of a solemn contract, an unspoken signature that hung, even more heavily than the humidity, as Rapunzel slowly nodded.

_Mine. You are all mine. Forever mine. _

"I love you very much, dear," Gothel smiled, cupping Rapunzel's cheek, twirling a strand of her soft, long hair.

The smile bloomed slowly across Rapunzel's face, tweaking her mouth, lighting her eyes.

"I love you more," she whispered, her voice so earnest that Gothel smiled in spite of herself.

Drawing Rapunzel close to her, she closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet softness of Rapunzel's golden hair.

"I love you most."

* * *

_A/N: I'm alive! Goodness, it's been a while since I've updated this. Oops. I did mean to make this chapter Gothel teaching Rapunzel how to play chess, but realised that I don't actually know how to play chess. Hence, lessons in misandry and distrust instead, hurrah. Parenting: Gothel, you're doing it wrong. _

_Reviews would be the coconut jam to my toast, but I'm mostly just happy that I haven't forgotten how to write :) _


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